


A Month & A Week

by betweentowns



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Pregnant Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-07 19:11:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16859731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweentowns/pseuds/betweentowns
Summary: (Ben Hardy!)Roger and his fiance have a bit of a miscommunication.





	A Month & A Week

It’d been one month and one week.

Though it wasn’t really the _month_ that was bothering Y/N. 

She and Roger had gone a month, sometimes more, plenty of times. It was what she liked to call a side effect—a side effect of being engaged to a member of the biggest band in the world. 

There were a lot of side effects; not being able to eat outside in front of their favorite curry stall, putting up with thousands of women shoving their tits into her fiancé’s face every night, Rog missing their last pregnancy check-up appointment. She’s used to them, now. How many years had she been with Roger, at this point? The side effects are part of the package, and usually, they’re no big deal, and Y/N’s very much used to them.

Usually.

And so, she’s okay, for the most part, that she wasn’t going to see Roger for a month while the boys finished the American leg of touring before breaking for December and Christmas. She misses him sure, but they talk every night, and he writes every week, and the crazily, inappropriately horny part of her that had appeared when she’d first gotten pregnant had finally subdued.

Mostly.

“How’re you, love?” Roger asks every night when he calls.

“M’good,” is Y/N’s typical reply, and it’s true. 5 months pregnant, is not as undesirable as 1, 2, 3, 4, which had been filled with nights vomiting and restless sleep. “Bit uncomfortable. I’m pretty sure your little devil spawn is aspiring to follow in daddy’s drummer footsteps.”

She can practically hear his grin coming through the phone, know’s it’s an ear-to-ear smile from the way his voice goes all soft and stretched. “That’s good for him, then, innit? A little bird tells me drummers attract the loveliest ladies.”

“Oh, is that so?” She hums.

He laughs, then is serious. “Sure you’re okay though? Maybe you could see the doctor—“

“Don’t worry,” she says, shaking her head, exasperated, though she knows he can’t see her. “Mostly missing you, is all. How’d tonight’s show go? Well? The radios have all said you’ve gone and sold out.”

This distracts him as expected. “Oh, it was _amazing_ —“ he leads, describing every aspect of the entire show so dynamically that it almost feels like Y/N had been there too, tonight, so that she can nearly hear the crowd. His voice leaks raspy, and throaty through the phone line until she can barely hear _what_ he’s saying and just that he’s saying things, and she can only think that she misses him. She wants that voice at her ear, whispering sweet nothings; against her stomach, singing to her child. 

He talks and talks, needing only the lightest of inputs from her until she hears another voice, Deaky’s, in the background, proclaiming that, “Blimey, Taylor, it’s been half a bloody hour.”

“Yeah, do you mind?” That’s Brian, and then there are a couple shoves and some girlish shrieking that makes Y/N shake her head at the thought of the band genuinely consisting of four _adult_ men.

Then Freddie’s voice comes through the receiver, charming and sweet, to say, “Y/N, sweetheart, I’m sorry, but there’s one phone, and I have legions of calls to make.”

“I was next in line!” Deaky protests this. 

Y/N laughs, used to this. Like she’d said, side effects. “That’s quite okay, Freddie. Send everyone my love. Love you, Rog,” she calls a little louder, and then hangs up after Roger’d yelled it back.

And so, the month had been stolen minutes of phone calls, and lonely nights, but she’d endured, and it’d gone by quickly.

No, the month wasn’t so bad.

It was the week that was bothering Y/N. One week home, and Roger has barely touched her. 

All at once it was the first week of December and Roger was back, and it was like he’d never left.

They don’t fuck on Monday—that, Y/N understands. The boys’ flight comes in late at night. He’s tired, and so’s she—it’s not so easy to wait up all night for flights anymore with a baby growing in her belly—and even though he has his hands all over her, cupping her face and rubbing her belly, and around her waist, and tangled in her hair, they leave it at that. There are bags under his baby blue eyes and he’s blinking and yawning in a way that automatically makes her heart ache for him, overshadows completely how badly she wants to be ravished. 

They collapse in bed within an hour of the plane arriving, and Y/N is content in just reveling in the feeling of him really being home, in their bed, in her arms.

Tuesday morning, Rog wakes up first, a habit that he acquires after touring sometimes, what with the odd sleep schedules and time differences and all, destroying any notion of morning sex. And Y/N almost complains, she really does, but then she pads down to the kitchen, and the sight of him there again, sipping tea from a Christmas mug she’d bought while he was away, frying her up some eggs with the ends of his hair still wet from the shower, pushes away any thought of sex, yet again.

She wraps her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her cheek against his shoulder, front against his back the best she can manage considering her belly, and murmurs, “Making me breakfast?”

They sway there for a minute while he flips the eggs, light streaming lazily through the kitchen window. “You’ve domesticated me,” he jokes finally. She feels his laugh against her cheek before he spins her around to press his lips to her temple, hands moving to cup her stomach. “Go back to bed, yeah?” he orders. “I’ll bring you breakfast, and then you can tell me all about everything I’ve missed.” He kisses her again, this time swiftly on her lips, and then she’s being shooed away. 

The rest of the day goes like this, quiet and lazy and stolen kisses and more meals in bed. They sleep all day, legs intertwined and palms against the small of backs, enjoying each other’s company the simplest way they know how.

On Wednesday, they decorate for Christmas. Rogers up early again, waking her up with kisses peppered over her face until she’s up, too, and they’re drifting through the room, grinning sillily and tugging on layers of winter coats and fuzzy socks.

At the tree farm, they take so long deciding on a pine that by the time the workers are strapping the thing, which is surely too big for their cozy living room, to the top of the car, Roger’s nose is bright red. 

“Hello, Rudolph,” Y/N laughs, teeth chattering.

“Well maybe if you hadn’t spent so long picking a tree…”

“You chose this one, Roger!”

His smiles, sly. “I’m only taking the mickey,” he says, snickering at her expression. He takes her hands and tugs off her gloves in one motion, sliding them under his multiple coats and sweaters so she can press them into his sides for warmth, and he’s immediately forgiven, even as he complains heartily that her hands are “absolutely _fucking_ freezing.”

They spend their afternoon wandering through the most obscure holiday shops they can find, collecting ornaments and tinsel and—at Roger’s somewhat ridiculous request—mistletoe.

They stop to get lunch only when the car is simply too full for shopping to continue, and after, Y/N is forced inside the house, “because of the baby,” when the boys arrive to help drag in their tree.

This time it’s her who falls asleep, head against the back of the couch, feet in Mary’s lap. As the sun sets, slowly the boys set up more and more lights, and they twinkle behind Y/N’s shut eyelids as she drifts unconscious to the sound of the boy’s laughter and roughhousing. 

When she wakes up, it’s cause she’s cradled in Roger’s arms. She catches a glimpse of the newly-decorated living room—the tree’s wearing all the random ornaments they’d picked out earlier, including the “I love my car!” one she’s teased Roger with. Above the fireplace hangs stockings—three of them!—one with Roger’s name, one with hers, and one that simply says, “Little Drummer.”

She doesn’t even protest as Roger tucks her into bed like a child. She’s grinning too hard to talk.

It’s Thursday, though, when Y/N is finally starting to piece together that something’s not quite right. 

They’ve had another quiet day, she finally tackling her stack of papers left neglected from work, Roger perched at her feet for most of it, working on some songs.

When night falls, they dress up in their best for a party at Freddie’s.

Roger’s all young playboy, hair artfully mussed, expensive cologne spilling from every crevice. He’s in thigh-hugging pants and a fur coat and his signature shades, and, oh, he looks so good it’s criminal.

Y/N keeps shooting him looks as she does her makeup in the bathroom mirror, and fuck—she wants him to tug her dress up and fuck her against the sink counter until her makeup is ruined and she can’t remember anything but his name.

Roger almost looks like he’s thinking the same thing, brushing his hands against her, the small of her back, her shoulders more than is necessary each time he walks by. 

To her extreme dismay, he doesn’t try anything, and uncharacteristically, they make it to the party.

They mingle the whole night, Y/N sorrowful over the lack of drink in her hand, and she remembers the old days, when a party meant Roger’s hands all over her, his lips on her neck, while their friends shouted for them to “get a room!” When they would’ve gotten a room, too. Most likely Freddie’s nearest closet. Oh, the good old days.

Okay. So Y/N is feeling a bit overdramatic. 

But the situation is dire.

They end up leaving the party late—well, late in some crowds; most people (including Freddie himself,) have only just arrived—but it’s still early enough that Y/N is convinced that they’re absolutely, most definitely going home so that her fiancé can make sweet, passionate love to her.

For the fourth day in a row, she’s terribly wrong.

He unwraps her hands gently from around his neck, untangles her fingers from his hair, and simply mutters, “I’m tired, love. Sorry,” and then he’s asleep. 

“I’m tired, love,” she whispers to herself, fully aware she sounds like a crazy person, fully aware that her voice is dripping with anger. “Sorry,” she mocks, throwing her hands up. 

On Friday and Saturday, the boys work on a hastily-thought-of song in the studio. Roger comes and leaves at odd times. Y/N wallows. 

On Sunday, Y/N decides she can’t take it anymore. 

Or rather, it’s a mutual decision.

It can’t be any later than two, maybe three in the middle of the night and Y/N’s only up because of the light pain in her back. This is a regular occurrence, especially as she advances farther in pregnancy, and she’s planning on only heading to the kitchen to allow her body the walk downstairs to stretch, maybe get a glass of water. But then she shifts as she’s trying to move the covers off of her, and freezes with Roger’s arm still across her torso, because his front is against her back and he’s hard against her, and—

She’s leaning over to kiss him before her mind can form another coherent thought other than _fuck_ _fuck_ _fuck I_ need _him_.

And he’s kissing her back, albeit slowly and confused at first. But a minute passes and then he’s completely awake and kissing her back just as feverishly, pushing her gently back into the pillows. Y/N’s positively melting against him, her back pain completely forgotten.

Roger pulls away, looking like it’s paining him to do so. His head is buried in the space between her neck and shoulder. “Y/N,” he whines. “We should stop.”

“Stop?” She tries her best to sit up, tries her best not to be offended that he’d been lowering her into the pillows to stop her, not ravish her. She feels teary.

“Stop?” She repeats. “Why?”

He looks at her, eyebrows drawn together, and even in the dark of the night, his eyes are an electric sort of blue. “Aren’t you— haven’t you been uncomfortable?”

“What?”

“That’s why we haven’t been shagging, innit? You told me on the phone—“

Y/N cuts him off. “You mean you’ve barely touched me all week because—because I told you once on the phone a whole _month_ ago that I was in a _bit. of. pain?”_

Roger’s spluttering. “I thought—“

“Roger Meddows Taylor! You thought wrong! You wanker! I thought you were too fucking knackered from touring!” Y/N cries, but most of the vim’s already gone out of her voice. She’s shaking her head. “You, you’re ridiculous. I can’t believe you. And there I was thinking, thinking you were repulsed by me, or something.”

He laughs, pushing some hair out of his face. “Love, I’ve been wanting to fuck you until you couldn’t walk since Monday night.”

Y/N laughs with him—the utter silliness of it all—but she’s cut off by Roger’s lips, back against her throat, her jaw, her chest. He’s shimmying off her oversized top (his own, really) in the next second. 

Her hands go immediately to his hair as one big hand cups one of her breasts, the other being used to balance his weight off of her. “Rog,” she whispers.

“Don’t tease. Please. I need you.”

“Say that again, love?”

Y/N groans. “I need you. Please.”

He groans, too, and their hips slide against each other desperately. “Was just making up for lost time, ’s all,” he tells her. He lifts himself away quickly to tug off his pajama trousers and top, and then he’s back against her, pulling her up so that she’s clambering clumsily into his lap, his dripping length between them, and his hair is against the headboard of their bed. 

He slides his hand towards her center and hisses when he slides a finger between her folds, his forearm resting against her swollen belly. “So wet for me love. Absolutely perfect.”

Y/N moans, bucking against his hand. He lets her for a moment, slides another finger to stroke her clit, is content to just listen to her little gasps as she gets closer and closer. She whines when he removes his hand, but then he’s sliding her onto his cock, and they’re both panting and whimpering like teenagers.

Roger just watches, almost in awe, as she moves up and down on him. She’s making the loveliest little sounds, the prettiest little faces and she needs almost no help from him at all. So he relaxes a little and lets her fuck herself on him until she’s teary-eyed and frantic for release, supporting her with a hand on each hip. “Oh, oh, _Roger_!”

He drops his hand again to rub circles around her clit the best he can with the angle, shifts so he can meet her thrusts with his own. 

“Pretty girl,” he rasps. “Come for me, lovey.”

He knows she’s gone for when he feels her toes curl against his leg. All sounds she’s been making cut off completely with a gasp of his name, and then she’s silent but for short pants as she rides her high.

He lets go himself after he’s done watching her get off, mouth open in a perfect ‘O.’ Y/N runs her fingers down his back, scratching lightly as he finishes inside her, and she revels in the feeling. “Good thing you’ve already knocked me up then, huh?” She murmurs at his ear. 

He laughs, breathy and low. “You’re a minx.” He pulls out of her carefully and leans in to kiss her jaw once more before moving towards the bathroom. 

Y/N hears the water run, and then he’s back with a warm washcloth, running it between her legs. She moans, skin sensitive from sex, and Roger thinks this is the most amazing thing—his pregnant fiancé, looking fucked out and beautiful, half asleep in their bed. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I really do think we should be getting to bed.”

“You’re a little shit,” she responds promptly, but the effect is lessened because she’s already pulling him back into her arms. He tosses the washcloth into the bin and helps her tug the blanket back over them.

“You love me,” he sings into her neck. He wraps an arm around her tight and places another on her belly, where their little drummer is playing against the soft skin there. 

Y/N sighs. “I love you,” she agrees. “Though next time you decide you’re being all noble by refraining from having sex with me, please just ask.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know. I've fallen into the rabbit hole.  
> Lots of love,  
> Betweentowns <3


End file.
